Fill In The Blanks
by sea kelp
Summary: foolish little girl · paper & fire just don't mix · axelnamine


She stares at her blank canvas with an intense scrutiny, clear blue orbs shining with some kind of perseverance. It's so dull, she notices with frustration, and it reminds her of herself—supposedly pure, untainted, with it's stark white appearance. So lethargic and boring. And everyone wonders. 

Who will be the waterfall of color on her void canvas?

**FILL IN THE BLANKS:**

Crisp white turns into a lavish portrait as fragile, pale fingers stroke color throughout color across the canvas. Her slender fingers are clasped tight around reds and blues and greens, so tense her whole arm is shaking from the strain, but crystalline eyes are shimmering with satisfaction—never before had she'd drawn something so sharp yet so delicate. Such a sincere portrayal of reality that captures him in such a promising way. Her shades and textures of vermillion and malachite; splashes of black and ginger singed with gold splashed here or there. It was perfect. He was perfect.

Perfect, in every shape and form, from his slender hips to the very tip of his little teardrop symbols, tattooed directly under his compelling optics. His laugh, so evocative and indeed _genuine_. His blood-red hair, the way it brushes against her soft complexion as he whispers sweet lies into her ear; sometimes in the alleyway behind the school, or in the library with tall bookshelves hiding them from view. His voice, hums and moans joining in with her velvety sighs, reverberating throughout the privacy of her own bedroom that shelters them from the censure of others.

And with the blinds closed tight and the door locked shut, she disregards reality and traces his figure with delicate, pure fingers, memorizing the sharp angles of his hips and counting every single rib as he leans backwards just a little bit, just like that, and she knows everything about him. They've been doing this ever since they met.

All of it done with delicate, pure fingers that aren't so pure at all.

She knows it's wrong, but it feels so right, with his colors of vermillion and malachite and his splashes of black and ginger singed with gold—she recalls that her mother always told her to do what she feels is right; follow your heart's desires, and other clichés a parent would say to encourage a child. She knows it's wrong, but yet she doesn't show any remorse for taking her mother's sensible guidance, then turning it into something not-so sensible—twisting it into a dysfunctional excuse for her own actions, but it's pointless. Truly futile. It's not true and she knows how wrong it is, she knows, she knows.

But she can't help it, he's sickeningly sweet and he treats her so decently with his vibrant exterior and his colorful mindset and his warmth. Especially his warmth, with his blazing passion that could outshine any flame of the largest beacon.

& now she knows  
who will fill her canvas

To her, he's fire and she's paper, and she comes to a understanding. It's not such a bad combination at all—she believes they match perfectly, like the two lonely pieces of a puzzle. It's paper capturing brilliant flames in the most intense portrait, and she doesn't feel contrite any longer. It still _feels_ right; she knows it's right.

What she doesn't know, is that he isn't just a vibrant splash of color to fill in her barren canvas—he's genuine fire, with his black and ginger hues, all singed with gold. She doesn't know, but he does.

He adores it so, how she is utterly oblivious to what his touch is doing to her. She's paper, brittle and light, and he's real fire, scorching and destructive as he singes her with thin lips ghosting upon white skin. He chars her with lengthy fingers running through white blond hair, trailing rough fingertips across her cheek and down her neck. He blackens her with searing breath as he whispers sweet lies into her ear.

draw me a picture

And she doesn't realize that they don't match perfectly in any way. He's fooling her and destroying her with his inferno, and yet she still has to perceive the wrongness of it all—because doing whatever feels right isn't always what's right, and Axel is just that. He isn't perfect in any shape or form, and he's not the only one capable of fooling her.

She can fool herself, too, thinking about all the right things at the wrong time with the wrong person—or maybe she would've been right if it hadn't been exactly _this way_. She doesn't know that, though; she still thinks everything is perfect, with his vermillion and malachite and her stark white and purity. With that, they make _the_ picture perfect couple, she muses.

It's clear as day that she doesn't know the difference between right and wrong anymore.

And she can't come to apprehend any of it all, now or _ever_, for that matter, because Naminé's no longer stark white and pure. Axel had done his part, and now she's black singed with gold.

Her canvas is all burnt to a crisp.


End file.
